Читать книгу The Santana Heir - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 8

Three

Grace opened her eyes. Blinding sunlight streamed through the open shutters of a grilled window. Dazed, she rolled away from the glare. What time was it?

The hands on the bedside clock pointed to 9:15. She groaned, remembering that most of South America was east of the United States. Peru would be on New York time. But her jet-lagged brain was still waking up in Arizona.

Zac must be on Arizona time, too. She had yet to hear a peep from the old-fashioned crib in the corner of the spacious bedroom.

Sinking back into the pillow she closed her eyes and allowed herself the luxury of a slow wake-up. They’d arrived last night in darkness, the house a sprawling hacienda behind high stone walls. After Emilio vanished, a stocky woman in local dress had shown Grace to this bedroom, with its adjoining marble bath. After a few moments of fussing over Zac, the woman had left her alone to put the baby to bed and brush her teeth. Too tired to unpack her pajamas, she’d stripped down to her underwear and crawled between lavender-scented sheets. The next thing Grace remembered it was morning.

Opening her eyes again, she scanned her surroundings. The massive four-poster bed looked as if it had been hand-hewn centuries ago from one giant tree. The canopy was draped in white netting, as was Zac’s crib in the far corner of the room. The downy coverlet was finished in a wine-colored brocade that contrasted richly with the open-timbered ceiling and whitewashed walls.

Like the bed frame, the dresser was lavishly carved, with a full-length mirror and matching velvet-topped bench. There were no closets, but a row of elegant wooden wardrobes stood along one wall. Clearly, this was no ordinary guest room. It had been built and furnished for someone with clothes to fill the wardrobes and adornments to justify the tall, gilt-framed mirror above the dresser. Grace tried to imagine generations of Santana men and women. How many of them had lived, loved and died in this room—and in this bed?

Grace hadn’t even known her own grandparents. How would it feel to have a family history going back for generations?

Roused to wakefulness, she swung her feet to the tiles and pattered over to the crib to check on Zac, who had yet to make a sound.

Grace parted the layered netting. Staring down into the crib, she gasped.

Zac was gone.

Tearing into her suitcase, she found her black nylon travel robe, flung it on and yanked the ties into a knot. Her motherly instincts were screaming. Her baby was missing in a strange place. What if he’d climbed or fallen out of bed and crawled away in the night? She had to find him.

Still barefoot, she burst out of the door and into a shadowed hallway. Grace froze, ears straining in the silence. She’d had nightmares like this—racing through dark passageways, searching for Zac. But this nightmare was real.

A faint light, barely visible, suggested a corner at the hall’s far end. She raced toward it, only to find herself looking down another long passageway. The house seemed as confusing as a giant labyrinth. But she would find Zac if she had to search every square foot of it.

Rounding the next corner at full tilt, she slammed into something big and solid. She staggered backward. Powerful hands caught her, steadying her shoulders.

“Grace?” Emilio’s dark eyes gazed down at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Zac’s gone. He’s not in his crib!”

For the space of a breath he seemed to be studying her, taking stock of her tousled hair, her tired eyes and the short, black travel robe. Glancing down as well, she noticed that the robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing her bra strap and the curve of her breast. Self-conscious, she tugged it back into place.

His troubled expression eased. His mouth twitched, as if biting back a chuckle. “Zac is fine, Grace. He woke up early, so the maids took him to the kitchen. He’s having a grand time in there.”

Grace felt herself crumbling. Relief washed through her at the knowledge that Zac was safe, but the feeling was quickly replaced with a rush of shame. She’d slept through Zac waking up? That had never happened before. Yes, she’d been exhausted after the flight, but that was no excuse. What must Emilio think of her, to be failing at her responsibilities to care for Zac on their very first day in Peru?

“What’s this? Tears?” Emilio thumbed her chin, tilting her face upward. He was freshly shaved and showered, his black hair glistening with moisture. Dressed in jeans, boots and a gray T-shirt that displayed his broad chest and muscular shoulders, he looked so annoyingly handsome that she could have punched the look off his face that seemed so mockingly sympathetic.

“Don’t make fun of me, Emilio,” she muttered. “Look at me. I’m still shaking. I was scared to death.”

His fingertips skimmed along her jaw, brushing her earlobe as he released her. Grace willed herself to ignore the heat that flashed through her like desert lightning.

“Poor Grace.” His voice was a velvet caress. “I understand your being frightened. What mother wouldn’t be?”

His words doused her arousal immediately, leaving her cold and aching. No doubt, they were innocently meant. Emilio could have no way of knowing that she could never truly be a mother. Zac had been her one best chance—a chance that might never come again.

“Can I take you to the kitchen?” Emilio offered. “You can see for yourself that Zac is fine.”

Torn between urgency and embarrassment, Grace glanced down at her bare feet and the thin robe that barely covered her thighs. “I can’t go like this.”

“Certainly you can!” Emilio captured her hand. “This is my home and you’re my guest. The staff’s used to people parading around here in all sorts of dress—or lack of dress, if you will.”

“I can just imagine,” Grace muttered as he led her along the corridor. If Zac was to grow up here, some aspects of Emilio’s playboy lifestyle would have to change.

The passage opened up to a covered portico with feathery palms in exquisite ceramic pots. Beyond the pillars Grace glimpsed a patio with a fountain that looked as if it could have been tinkling away for centuries. As Arturo’s heir, this magnificent estate would be part of Zac’s legacy. The boy would have the best of everything, including the finest education money could buy. And what could she offer him as a single mother? A modest house. A public school education...

Wafting aromas of bacon and coffee told her they were nearing the kitchen. Now she could hear voices—women’s voices, laughing and chattering.

“This way.” Emilio guided her around an elbow bend in the passageway, designed to conceal the kitchen entry. A few more steps, and Grace found herself in a sunny, spacious kitchen, furnished with modern appliances and decorated in colorful tiles. Gleaming copper pans hung above the massive stove. Strings of dried peppers, onions, garlic and vanilla pods trailed along the wall above an ancient stone fireplace.

In the far corner, next to a window, Zac perched in a well-scrubbed wooden high chair. Two young maids in native dress were hand-feeding him slices of ripe banana, giggling as he mashed the food in his fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. Zac was hooting with delight, enjoying the attention.

Turning, he caught sight of Grace. For an instant he looked surprised. Then his dark puppy eyes lit. He grinned, waved his sticky hands and spoke his very first word.

“Mama!”

Grace’s heart dropped and shattered.

* * *

Emilio watched Grace rush across the kitchen. He’d caught the glint of tears as she broke away. Many women had used tears to manipulate him, and he thought he’d become hardened to the sight. But Grace’s tears, welling in those magnificent hazel eyes that were overflowing with deep, maternal love, had moved him in an unexpected way.

His own mother had left him to be raised by servants while she pursued her life of socializing, shopping and beauty treatments. She’d given him little attention, let alone affection. Now, seeing a woman shed tears of love for a child who wasn’t even biologically hers came as a shock.

For the first time, Emilio questioned the benevolence of taking Arturo’s son. How could he tear a child from the arms of the only mother he’d ever known—a mother who clearly loved him?

Only one solution would ease his guilt—persuading Grace to stay and raise the boy here. She’d agreed to come to Peru—that was a big step. But he knew the battle wasn’t over when it came to convincing her to stay. She was a foreigner who would be giving up a good life in the United States. Some aspects of his culture would be unfamiliar, even disturbing. But if she decided to leave, one thing was certain—Zac would not be going with her. The boy belonged here.

Grace had reached the high chair and was bending over to wash Zac’s face. Her pose gave him a tantalizing glimpse of leopard-print panties and a shapely rump, with those long, golden legs stretching below. Emilio swore under his breath. Seducing Grace would be delicious. It might even induce her to be content to stay around. But what would happen when the magic faded, as it always did? It would be the same old story—accusations, tears, slamming doors and a hasty drive to the airport.

Emilio knew the routine well. Most of the time he didn’t mind. The end of one affair opened the door for another. But Grace’s departure would only create problems—not the least of them, a miserable child. Even if she stayed after the breakup, the awkwardness would make things unpleasant, especially if he brought in new compañeras.

With a sigh of regret, Emilio faced the truth. If he wanted to keep Grace here, he’d be a fool to lay so much as a lustful finger on the woman. He would need to treat her like a sister.

She’d straightened now, but the view of her body in that silky little robe was enough to tighten his briefs. Emilio muttered an appreciative curse. If this kept up, he’d be spending time under a cold shower.

Looking for a diversion he glanced at his watch. “Grace.” She turned, her sun-streaked hair tumbling over one eye. Emilio cleared the tightness from his throat. “If you can be ready in half an hour, I’ll meet you on the patio for breakfast. Then I’ll show you around. All right?”

“Sure.” She turned her attention back to the baby and the two maids. Feeling as if he’d been dismissed, Emilio returned to the portico and crossed the open patio to the ancient library that served as his home office. It was a magnificent room, the walls lined with shelves of priceless books, the rich leather couches arranged for socializing or reading. The computer on the ancient desk looked out of place with its ugly cords and connections. For now, at least, that couldn’t be helped.

Taking his seat, Emilio turned on the power and brought up his email. After deleting the messages he judged not to be worth reading, he opened one from a longtime friend, the Greek shipping heir Nikolas Stavros.

Sorry to hear about your brother, Emilio. You’ll have plenty to deal with, but hoping you’ll be free for my April party cruise. Won’t drop names here but some old friends will be on board, as well as a certain hot TV actress who says she’s dying to meet you. Your usual cabin’s reserved and waiting.

Nik

With a weary breath, Emilio typed his regrets and pressed Send. Before Arturo’s accident he’d have looked forward to a wild week of sex and partying on his friend’s palatial yacht. But those days were over. By the time he saw his way clear of running the Santana fiefdom, he’d be an old man.

And for what? His parents were long gone. Even while they were alive, they’d had no time for him. What did he owe them?

To hell with it. He could sell off everything but the estate and live in freedom for the rest of his life. Why not just do it?

Emilio ran a restless hand through his unruly curls. Arturo, four years his senior, had been mostly gray by the time he died. Emilio was beginning to understand how that could happen.

Emilio had never expected to take Arturo’s place—never wanted to. The burden had dropped on him with the crushing weight of an avalanche. And up until a week ago, he’d thought that as the last surviving Santana male, he was destined to bear that weight alone.

But now, everything had changed. Now, there was Zac. His brother’s little boy. The heir to everything the family had built over countless generations. And now that he had someone to work for, someone to pass the legacy on to, Emilio started to understand the drive to protect the investments and secure the future so that the next generation would inherit something of value.

He owed it to Zac, who needed him, and to Arturo, who had never given up on him, to do his best for the family. His family.

A family that now included a member who was far too alluring. He found her an intriguing woman—intelligent, challenging and sensual. The fact that he’d declared her off-limits made her all the more tantalizing; but he’d resolved not to think of her in those terms. He was capable of being friends with an attractive woman. He’d proven that with Cassidy. He could do the same with Grace if it was in his family’s best interests.

Meanwhile he needed to go over the accounts for the estate, familiarizing himself with the monthly salaries and expenses, and making sure everything was paid to date. He’d already learned that the old hacienda didn’t support itself, but depended on the income from other ventures. The Santana empire was an interconnected web, so complicated that the thought of it made Emilio’s head ache. But the mess was his responsibility now, and he knew better than to think he could walk away from it.

With a glance at his watch, he set to work.

* * *

The day was already warm when Grace returned to her room to get ready for breakfast. After a quick shower, Grace dressed in khaki shorts, a plain white shirt, leather sandals and, as an afterthought, gold gypsy earrings. She’d expected to be bathing Zac, but the maids, Ana and Eugenia, had commandeered the boy. As nearly as Grace could make out with her limited Spanish, the two girls were sisters with four younger siblings at home. They seemed very competent with Zac, who was smiling and jabbering, basking in their attention. Surrendering to their pleas, Grace had given them Zac’s clean clothes and diapers and gone to get ready herself.

The older woman Grace had met last night caught up with her in the hallway and guided her back to the patio off the dining area. “Aquí está, señorita,” she murmured, indicating a sunny table with two chairs. “Don Emilio llegará en un momento.”

Grace congratulated herself on having understood that Emilio would be here in a moment. She took her seat with a polite “Gracias.”

The woman poured rich black coffee. “El niño es hijo de Don Arturo?” she asked.

Again Grace understood. The woman was asking whether Zac was Arturo’s son. “Sí,” she responded, fumbling for the words. “Es hijo de Arturo y de mi hermana.” Had she said it correctly, that Zac was the son of Arturo and her sister? The woman’s smile told her she’d succeeded.

The woman pointed to her chest. “Me llamo Dolores.”

“Mucho gusto, Dolores. Me llamo Grace.” The old high school Spanish was coming back.

“A su servicio, señorita.” With a nod of her graying head, Dolores hurried away. Settling back in her chair Grace sipped her coffee and took in the view. This patio was larger than the one she’d crossed earlier. Bougainvillea, riotous with pink blooms, cascaded from the eaves. A spacious wrought-iron cage held two scarlet macaws. They fluttered and squabbled, feasting on scraps of fruit.

A cobbled path meandered through a grove of flowering trees. Not far beyond, Grace glimpsed a swimming pool. A shirtless young man with a taut, muscular body was skimming the water with a long-handled net. In the distance, steep mountains, bare of trees, towered against the sky.

“Here you are.” Emilio strode onto the patio. “Sorry if I’m late. Just catching up on some work.”

“No problem. I’ve been enjoying the view. I didn’t expect to have so much time on my hands, but it seems Ana and Eugenia have taken over—” Grace almost said my son, but she caught herself. “They’ve taken over the baby. They even insisted on bathing him.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. But you don’t need to worry. They’re good girls and very capable.” Emilio slid into his chair, his eyes taking her measure from her gypsy hoops to her low-heeled leather sandals. “You look...nice.” He paused before the last word as if he’d been about to say something else.

“Thanks. This is about as dressed-up as you’ll see me while I’m here.”

“Oh?” Emilio poured his coffee and took a sip. “That’s too bad because I’m planning a party next weekend to welcome you and my brother’s son to Peru. I was looking forward to seeing you in an evening dress.”

“Oh, but I didn’t bring—”

“Of course you wouldn’t have packed a gown. But there are fine shops in Cusco. My driver can take you after you’re settled in.”

Dolores had come outside with a tray of beautifully cut tropical fruits—pineapple, mango, melon and banana. “It’s almost too pretty to eat!” Grace speared several pieces for her plate.

“Get used to it. When it comes to food, Dolores is a true artist. The two girls you met are her nieces. She’s training them to take her place one day—as her father trained her in this very kitchen.”

The food kept coming—airy scrambled eggs, crisp slabs of bacon, seasoned black beans, fried potatoes and buttered corn muffins. Everything was so delicious that Grace had to push herself away from the table. “Heavens, do you eat like this every day?” she asked.

Emilio had been watching her devour breakfast, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “Again, you’ll get accustomed to it. In the city, meals are more like what you’re used to. But here in Urubamba we follow tradition—a hearty breakfast to start the day, a light lunch around two o’clock followed by a siesta—when there’s time for it, at least. Then at night, around nine o’clock, we dress up and gather for dinner. It’s all very civilized.”

He finished his plate and put his napkin on the table. “If you’re finished I’d like to show you the countryside. By chance, do you ride?”

Ride? Grace’s stomach clenched with instinctive fear. She forced her mouth into a smile. “I rode as a teenager. But I haven’t been on a horse in fifteen years. I’m not sure if I even remember how. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk.”

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed, his insistence tightening the knot in her stomach. “We’ll have a lot of ground to cover—too much to travel on foot—and nobody forgets how to ride. I’ll find you the gentlest horse in the stable.” He glanced down at her bare legs. “You’ll want to put on long pants.”

Grace rose. It would be simpler to tell him the truth. But the truth was too private, too personal to share. The only other choice was facing stark, paralyzing panic.

“See you back here in fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ll find you a hat, and I’ll check on the boy for you.”

His name is Zac, she wanted to remind him. But her fear-constricted throat refused to form the words.